


Growing Pains

by TheBenvolioArchives



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark Arts, Death Eaters, Gen, Hogwarts, Lucius hates kids, Marauders' Era, Ravenclaw, Slytherin, Slytherins Being Slytherins, The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, bellatrix is bellatrix, but we knew that, pre-harry potter, ravenclaws are not all nerds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-20 10:17:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4783709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBenvolioArchives/pseuds/TheBenvolioArchives
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Bellatrix is older, she won't be like the other girls...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Growing Pains

**Author's Note:**

> FIRST POST! HELLS YEAH!

When Bellatrix is five she learns how to braid, and for a while her favorite feeling is running her fingers over the thick ropes and feeling every individual strand, coarse and rough in contrast to the silky bands that make up most of the weave.

When she’s seven, she hides chewing gum in her dress robes, because Mummy said it wasn’t lady-like to chew in public, but sometimes she bites her lips raw, and the bubbly flavor helps distract her from the urge, at least for a little while. She doesn’t care that Mummy keeps catching her and making her spit it out. She’ll get more from the house elves later.

When Bellatrix turns nine, no one throws her a party, because they’re visiting Aunt Walburga and Uncle Orion, who don’t have time to throw parties now that they’ve got two little boys to deal with. Sirius is five, and he eyes her distrustfully until she pushes him off of the plush footstool he’s claimed as his own. Regulus is more her style, a calm toddler who looks up at her with his full lips pouted like a doll, reminding her a bit of baby Narcissa (all baby Dromeda did was cry).

Eleven is a different story. When she turns eleven, her family throws the biggest party they can manage, and everyone is invited. Bella stuffs herself with butterbeer and cake until her pretty, fitted dress is tight around her stomach, and then she sneaks up to the owlery to play with the birds. She’s got her own now, a majestic looking short eared owl she’s named Dante. He looks at her with those glowing eyes, and she feels her stomach flutter. Power like his must be _exciting._

Hogwarts is an adventure from the start. Bella boards the train hand in hand with Lucius Malfoy, who’s been ordered to look after her but will probably ditch her at the door, which proves true when she turns to wave to her family and he disappears. She takes up the corner of one of the larger compartments, expensive boots up on the seat, and glares at anyone who so much as looks at her the wrong way.

She doesn’t make friends easily, because Bellatrix is used to relying on her family’s status, and while it works with her Slytherin peers, she finds her teachers are a different matter. They don’t bend to her every whim, unlike what she’s used to, and her smiles and batted lashes mean nothing to them—especially McGonagall. Bella takes to spending long hours in the library. If she proves that she can work, she’ll be able to earn their favor.

When Bellatrix is thirteen, a Ravenclaw boy asks her to Hogsmeade. He’s a full year her senior, and attractive enough, but she wrinkles her nose at him and laughs when he extends the invitation. She won’t be seen with a _Ravenclaw,_ no matter how attractive he might be. She doesn’t tell him, but he gets the message, along with everyone else at Hogwarts, and then nobody asks her out, so she goes alone.

At fifteen, Bellatrix makes the decision not to be beautiful. She’s seen what it’s done to girls her age, the vain preening and brainless laughter, the air of accomplishment that doesn’t fit. She doesn’t want to be one of those girls, she decides, and so she does something about it. She starts with a glamour, one that sharpens her cheekbones and hollows out her eyes, leaving her with a gaunt, sickly appearance boys shy away from. When that doesn’t work, when all she gets is a concerned look and a shove in the direction of the hospital wing, she eases it up and turns to more natural remedies. The wrong color rouge gives Bellatrix a permanently flushed face, like she’s finished running a marathon, and her low-cut robes make her look like one of those loose Ravenclaw girls who takes her services to the astronomy tower in exchange for a handful of galleons. She wears her stockings hiked up and clipped into her garter, but they’re run through with holes and tears and stained from hours of exploring the Forbidden Forest.

When Bellatrix is sixteen, she changes again. Her mother frowns sternly at the severe bob, but then it crops up in Witch Weekly as one of the most fashionable looks of the year, and she smiles and reluctantly tells Bella that she looks “modern”. Bella pouts prettily and sips her pumpkin juice. She likes the stains her lipstick leaves on the crystal, like blood on ice. It’s worth it.

Seventeen. Bella graduates with high marks that she doesn’t intend to use, and another mark, a more secret one, on her left arm, positively itching with power. She learns that outlining her eyes in black makes her look dangerous, and a leather corset does just enough for her figure, even under the loose robes every Death Eater wears. And most of all, she learns that Voldemort wants her.

She’s from a powerful family, and the Dark Lord needs all the influence he can get. He kisses her hand when she curtsies, and tells her that he needs no such formalities. “We’re allies in a common cause,” he says, and his voice is buttery and warm and enveloping, like a hug. It makes Bellatrix feel safe. He takes her by the arm and lets her sit in the char beside him, and when she laughs, he laughs with her, and she isn’t afraid.

 


End file.
